


Perfect Strangers

by stellarisms



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Career, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Friendship/Love, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarisms/pseuds/stellarisms
Summary: someday, this story is going to get the sequel (expansion?) it deserves BUT FOR NOW HERE IT IS the labor of my last-minute love... . .. .. its rushed and def not What I Planned To Write; i hope its an enjoyable piece to my recipient & all those reading this anyhow though!!;;;





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandkopf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandkopf/gifts).



> someday, this story is going to get the sequel (expansion?) it deserves BUT FOR NOW HERE IT IS the labor of my last-minute love... . .. .. its rushed and def not What I Planned To Write; i hope its an enjoyable piece to my recipient & all those reading this anyhow though!!;;;

 

Headphones in, humming to nothing in particular, Victor feels something brush against his elbow.

 

His shoulder.

 

Then – a solid weight leaning **onto** it.

 

Pause.  

 

Shift.  

 

Blink.

 

Five years and counting, Victor’s been riding the train from this particular stop.  

 

This route is hardly anything out of the ordinary.  

 

He knows, eyes closed or open, how his (mundane, routine, _boring_ ) mornings should go.  

 

He knows the steps from his apartment building to where the bus picks him up, where his bus lets off, how to get to his office three blocks away from where the subway takes him.

 

But today–

 

Today–

 

“Ah.  He’s asleep.”  Victor figured, as soon as it happened.  The quiet snore he hears from his seat neighbor – now slumped against his shoulder – confirms it.  “With two more stops ’til I get off, too…”

 

Two more stops, Victor tells himself.

 

Two more stops, Victor thinks.

 

(Short dark hair, not quite long enough to cover oval blue frames knocked slightly askew.)

 

Up until he catches a glimpse of the boy who’s dozing away beside him.

 

(A slight snuffle, a wrinkle of his nose, like he’s smelled something pungent in a lucid dream.)

 

Once he does…

 

(Defenseless, hapless – the perfect balance, the perfect photo waiting to happen.)

 

Well.

 

Victor can’t find the sense of self to shake him awake, let alone speak.

 

“–Okay.”  Victor sighs, resolved to sit in relative silence.  “Two more stops, then.”

 

Certainly, he can’t expect his sleeping companion to answer.

 

Not any time soon.

 

* * *

 

The next minute, the next stop, is over before long.

 

For Victor – busy checking his email on his phone, while moving ever so slightly to accommodate his extra load – it passes by in a flash.

 

When the conductor makes her announcement for his stop, Victor isn’t startled.

 

The boy he has to shake (a gentle shake, of course; he’s not an awful person after all), however, **is**.

 

“Oh!”  Abruptly, as if he hadn’t been asleep for the last five minutes, the young man scrambles to his feet rod-stiff.  “I-I’m sorry, so sorry about that, I haven’t slept well the last few nights—”

 

“I could tell,” Victor, wry but good-natured, laughs.  

 

“I…yeah, I’m.  Sorry.”  

 

Alright, maybe Victor shouldn’t have laughed; that’s a genuine apology right there, if an awkward one.  

 

“If you can believe it,” he goes on to say, “I don’t.  Make it a habit of doing stuff like that.”

 

The trolley rocks to a slow halt.

 

Overhead, they make a second announcement.

 

Automatically, Victor stands to disembark.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Victor tells him, smile mostly teeth.  He hopes it’ll soothe the other man’s concerns.  “I’ve got to get off this stop now.  For work.  Make sure to get some rest when you get home today, alright?”

 

A random act of kindness…

 

Huh.

 

Suddenly, the idea doesn’t feel so contrived, seeing the smile he gets in return.

 

“Thanks,” says the boy – and, surprising Victor, strides right after him on his way toward the door.  “This is…my stop as well, actually?  I’m headed Downtown to MU’s north campus for classes, so.  Um.”

 

“You’re in college?”  Victor has to pick up his pace to catch up to Yuuri, following him up the stairs leading out of the terminal.  “And here I’d thought you were still in high school.”    

 

“Most people do.”  It’s a glib, practiced response.  Victor, briefly, wonders if it’s his high tenor or the round face that fools the unassuming.  “Yuuri Katsuki, sophomore.  Studying Music for the time being, but I’m moving into the Dance program if I can make it in after this semester.”  

 

It’s— a pleasant surprise.

 

Surprises all around.

 

The next fifteen seconds or so proceed in comfortable silence, until the moment they’ve reached higher ground.

 

The distant honking of Downtown traffic, the murmur-shouts of passerby all around them, shatter their quiet world all at once.

 

“Victor Nikiforov.”  They stop, once they’ve reached the crosswalk, to shake hands.  “Currently a writer and photographer for Young At Art Magazine – y’know, the one that Channel 10 shouted out last week on their local showcase? – and, well.  I’ve always wanted to dance professionally.”  

 

“For real?”  It’s Yuuri’s turn to laugh, incredulous.  “Not pulling my leg now, are you?”

 

“Nope.  Not your leg or your arm.  Your shoulder, maybe, for making mine falling asleep.”  

 

Victor’s glad, once Yuuri’s furrowed brow relaxes and he lets out another – lighter – chuckle.  

 

“No, but seriously.  I’ve loved dancing since I was a kid.  MU, you said?”  Victor asks, curious.  “I should stop by there and see you perform next semester, then.”

 

“If,” huffs Yuuri, peering up at Victor through long dark bangs, “I make it into their Dance program.”

 

Victor can’t say _what_ it is about this unusually unusual morning.

 

Victor doesn’t – usually – go out of his way to reassure strangers like this.

 

He doesn’t – usually – stop and stare at someone he’s just met, like they’ve struck his muse and sparked his poetic, inspired side.

 

“Yuuri.  Don’t talk like that – you will!  You’ll make it in.”  But what Victor does know, in that moment, is that he means every word he says then.  “I haven’t seen you at work, granted, but – call it intuition.  My friend Christophe swears by it.”

 

“Does he?”  Yuuri’s voice drops, yet he’s hiding a grin behind an embarrassed wave of his hand.  “Funny, since I’ve got a friend named Phichit who believes in my sixth sense too.”

 

“Oh?  Who knows, maybe they’ve met before.”

 

They both share a laugh over that.  

 

If not for Victor glancing at his clock and realizing – disappointed – that he’ll be late for work at this rate, they would have kept talking.  

 

“Well.  I’d better go before I get chewed out for being late. Again.”  Yuuri giggles.  Victor grins.  “’Til next time, Yuuri.  Hopefully, when you’re feeling more awake.”

 

(Uncle Yakov always did accuse him of being a _drama queen_ , but.  

 

But, really.   

 

Really, this was—)

 

“’Til next time,” Yuuri beams, “Victor.”

 

* * *

 

(This _has_ to be the start of something good, Victor thinks as he walks the rest of the way to work, humming nothing in particular and smiling wide.  It _has_ to be.)

 

* * *

 

  
Every Wednesday, Victor starts his morning commute earlier so he can meet Yuuri on his way to work.  
  
It becomes a part of Yuuri’s routine as much as it becomes his.  
  
Twenty minutes: that’s how long Victor’s bus spends in traffic getting to the station.

  
Ten minutes: that’s how long Victor rides the train without seeing a familiar face.

  
Five minutes, provided there’s no delays: that’s how long he has to spend in Yuuri’s company.  


It’s not nearly enough time.

 

Not for Victor.

  
But, well, he’ll take whatever he can get.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Yuuri boards the train and sits next to Victor in a mood to talk.  
  
Lucky for Yuuri, Victor welcomes the opportunity and listens.  
  
He talks about his busy weekend, about his not-so-ordinary day.

  
He talks about his struggles, the night before, late-night studying or marathon textbook-reading.

 

He confides in Victor, too, how much he misses life before college and studying abroad.  


(“So you don’t keep contact with any of your old friends from high school?”  

  
“Not really.  All of them either moved away or moved onto different stages of life where it got hard to keep up.  What about you, Victor?”  

  
“Ahh, well.  You know.  When your parents move around a lot, it’s hard to make any friends in school, let alone keep them.”

 

“...” )

 

He talks about his roommate Phichit, of their impromptu outings, video game contests.

 

He talks about their initial days sharing an apartment together, the first time Yuuri’s lived with anyone outside his own home.

 

His voice – tinged with fondness – when he speaks of his first-ever Best Friend.  


(“I’d like to meet him someday.”

  
“Phichit?  Yeah, you should…he reminds me of you, actually.  O-Or is it the other way around…?”

 

“I’m flattered, but it’s definitely the other way around.  You met Phichit first, didn’t you?”)  


He talks about his doting parents, their weekly Skype calls from Japan to the States, their monthly care packages and their endless words of encouragement.

  
He talks about his old ballet instructor Minako, a star dancer in her heyday and a forever advocate of the arts.

 

He talks about his big sister Mari, a stylist for a big-name talent company based in Tokyo, and her own forgotten dreams of stardom.  


  
(“I wish I knew more Japanese.

 

“Why?”

 

“That way, I could impress your parents enough where they’d want to adopt me.”

  
“W-Why would you want my parents to adopt you?!”

  
“Because!  I want them to send me homemade Japanese sweets every month too!”)

 

Sometimes, Yuuri boards the train with tired eyes and a weary ‘hello’ on his dry lips.  
  
Lucky for Yuuri, Victor notices and moves his bag from the saved seat beside him.  
  
He talks about his dream major, how he considered Art but decided it was better suited to hobby work rather than professional work.

  
He talks about how he considered Elementary Education, and how he learned from summer camp colleagues what a difficult field it was.

 

He confides in Victor about his anxiety, a month later, and how Yuuri knows he’s his own worst enemy but just can’t seem to convince his head to synchronize with his heart.  


(“When I first came here, I tried seeing a couple of therapists.”

  
“Oh?”

  
“The first one was a test.  A tryout.   I stuck with the second therapist, though – she was really great.  We didn’t have anything like that in Japan, and I wanted to see if it would help.”

  
“—Did it help?”

  
“It did.  Up until last December, anyway.”

 

“December…”

  
“…Remember the incident I told you about?  When I had that panic attack right before our opening night at the big MU Art’s Showcase?”

  
“Mmhmm, I remember.  What about it?”

  
“After that happened, I just.  Stopped going.  Cut ties with my therapist, felt bad for doing it, but – I couldn’t.  Couldn’t face her, pretend everything was okay.  Figured no one could help me get better if I couldn’t even help my own damn self—”)

 

Sometimes, when Yuuri confides in Victor, he takes it all in and gives advice only when asked.  


(“…Yuuri.  You’re a good person, you know that?”)

  
Sometimes, when Yuuri confides in Victor, his chest grows so constricted that Victor can’t help himself.

 

(“I don’t— Victor, I’m.  How am I—?”)

 

Sometimes…  


(“Because, you— you hate when people underestimate you.  Or when people think of you as an inconvenience or a burden.”)

 

Sometimes, when Yuuri grows reticent and draws into himself like that, Victor **understands**.

  
(“N-No, I’m— it’s not like that, really—”)

 

He can’t stay quiet.

  
(“Or when people pity you, or your circumstances.  When they think they know you, but you know they don’t.)

 

He can’t ignore it.  


(“But, its okay, Yuuri.  I know you.  I know you well enough from all that you’ve told me about yourself, and – if it means anything at all – I think you’re a great person.  The best person I know.”)

 

He can’t pretend he doesn’t know better.

  
(“…Victor.”)

 

And sometimes—

  
(“—Yes?”)

 

Sometimes—

 

(“Victor…has anybody ever told you that you’re a real ass when you’re trying to be comforting?”

  
“Absolutely not.  They call me way, way worse things, Yuuri!  Thanks for being the first person to call me just that.”

  
“…Somehow I doubt that, but.  You’re…you’re welcome, I guess.)

  
—Sometimes, Victor _has_ to make his – and Yuuri’s – morning routine even more interesting.  


* * *

  
(And sometimes, Victor does it just for the chance of watching Yuuri’s tear-bright eyes glisten with soft, starlit dreams instead – or the possibility that a sunshine smile sparked can jump-start both of their long days ahead.)

 

* * *

 

Every Monday and Wednesday, Victor meets Yuuri downtown for breakfast.

 

It’s a new routine, one Victor was gladder than glad to start.

 

At Yuuri’s suggestion, no less – the best part of it all.

 

Coffee, croissants, and a carry-out bag tucked under Victor’s chin; his hands are occupied holding his bag and his latte for later.

 

Espresso on ice, everything bagel, and an elephant’s memory for directions; Yuuri doesn’t need his hands free or his phone to pull up his GPS.

 

In fact, Victor isn’t making too much of a fuss about it.

 

About their walking speed, about which backalley they could cut through.

 

Whether he makes it there before 9 or nott, Victor could honestly care less.

 

“Even if your boss **is** your uncle,” Yuuri scolds him when Victor’s protests turn to whining, “you still should try to get there on time!”

 

“But Yuuuuuuuri—!”

 

“Don’t you ‘Yuuuuuuuri’ me, Nikiforov.”  He frowns, but Victor catches the corner of his lips twitching and – well.  “C’mon, start walking, you big baby.  You’re holding me up from getting to class on time, too, you know!”

 

“Am not,” pouts Victor.  Like, literally pouting.  He’s trying to earn some pity points here, okay.  “You always like getting to places early.  Don’t try to fool me.  I know.”

 

“Yes, yes,” sighs Yuuri, long-suffering. “We get it, Victor.  You know me.  I know you.  This friendship goes both ways, in case you forgot.”

 

Victor, in mid-stride, trips.

 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor gasps, hand held over heart hovering above ground.  “I can’t believe.”

 

“What?!” Yuuri yelps, almost crashing into Victor due to his sudden stop.

 

Two beats, and then—

 

“I can’t believe,” Victor bites his bottom lip, forcing back his elated laughter threatening to bubble forth, “you called us friends.”

 

Yuuri stares.

 

Like Victor’s turned into a three-eyed six-armed beast before his very eyes.

 

“Um.  Yeah?  Obviously?  Because that’s what we are?”  Yuuri veers around him, and then – without warning – grabs Victor’s sleeve to tug him along as they walk.  “Maybe you can’t believe it, Victor, but I know I can.”

 

Friends.

 

Victor likes the sound of that, likes that they’re close enough to count for that in Yuuri’s mind.

 

“Yuuuuuuuri.”  

 

(There’s no real reason why he’s calling out for Yuuri’s attention.)

 

“Whaaaaaaat, Victor Nikiforov?”

 

(Not a conscious one, that is.)

 

“I’m happy,” says Victor, allowing Yuuri to continue pulling him along down the sidewalk, “we’re friends now.”

 

“Like I said, haven’t we been that way for a while?”  Yuuri answers back, shaking his head.  “Sometimes, I wonder about you…”

 

(Victor can’t see his expression, can’t tell if Yuuri is frowning or smiling, but—)

 

* * *

 

(What Victor _does_ know is that he can pinpoint the exact moment Yuuri starts walking faster, because Yuuri’s ears turning pink beneath his muffler are all the indication he needs.)

 

* * *

 

Three weeks into their twice-weekly routine, Yuuri sends Victor the address to his and Phichit's apartment.

 

It’s midday on a Friday when he gets the text.

 

Perfect.

 

Victor calls out of work for the next day.  

 

He blames it on catching a stomach virus (of course) and, while Yakov doesn’t buy his excuse for even a millisecond, Victor has Christophe to vouch for him and back him up.

 

Best.  

 

Suitemate.  

 

 **Ever**.

 

Really, though.  They’ve been inseparable from the moment they met, and it’s been great.  

 

They’re similar enough where it unnerves Chris’s boyfriend a little, in fact, and leaves Yurachtka with The Worst Possible Creeps.

 

Capital letters.  Verbatim.

 

“Look, we can’t all have cubicle-mates we get along with like peas in a pod.”  Victor, busy fixing up some soup to take over to Yuuri’s apartment, readjusts the phone closer to his ear.  “I know you’re jealous, kotjónok, I know!  I get it!  But, hey, at least Otabek’s moving from PR next week—”

 

“And you bet your ass I’m gonna convince Yakov kick JJ across the office floor, if not **out** of the goddamn office,” Yuri growls, “so Beka can move into his old space.”  

 

“If you don’t do it first, you mean?”  Victor sniggers, already conjuring a wild mental image.

 

“Pretty much.”  Yuri snorts.

 

But his equally active imagination gets cut short.  

 

“Crap, Beka’s on the other line.”  Sure as day, here comes that tone on the other line, indicating Yuri has an incoming call.   “Have fun with your Better Half, hopefully?  I’ll catch up with ya later, Victor.”

 

“No problem.”  He’s almost sure Yuri’s hung up on him at this point, but keeps on going anyhow: “Have a nice talk with _your_ Better Half, Yurachtka!”  

 

Click.

 

Yep.

 

No surprise there, either.

 

* * *

  


“Ohhh, you must be Victor!”  

 

Umber skin, twinkling white teeth.

 

Long, long lashes, made more elongated and pronounced by winged eyeliner.

 

Offbeat, overenthusiastic, but – friendly.

 

“And you must be,” Victor quips right back, “Phichit!”

 

He’s never _heard_ a laugh like that, so airy and pure he’d believe if someone told him it came from another world.

 

“Aww…no guessing games tonight, huh?”  Phichit Chulanont, Victor observes, can go from merry to sober faster than one could blink.  Or drink, for that matter.  “It’s nice to finally meet the guy Yuuri can’t stop singing praises for, I guess.”

 

Victor, sheepish, moves into the opened doorway space Phichit offers.

 

“Do I want to know what kinds of praises,” inquires Victor, “Yuuri sings about me?”

 

“P-Phichit—!?”  Victor and Phichit whirl around, toward the screech coming from the kitchen.  “W-Why did you… I-I mean, Victor—?!  Why are **you** so early—?”

 

“Hi!”  Victor chirps, trying not to start sniggering like Phichit was behind him.  “Sorry I came a half-hour early, Yuuri!  I just wanted to surprise you!”

 

“Well,” Phichit chokes, still snickering, “he did.  Apparently.”

 

“Shhhhhh!  Remember, Phichit?  I’m not supposed to be here for another thirty minutes!”  Phichit squawks, clutching his stomach and chortling away.  Victor, undeterred, keeps stage-whispering on.  “Nobody can know I’m here except for you…!”

 

“Okay.  Seriously?  Seriously, guys?”  Yuuri’s footsteps move closer to the partition wall.  “I can hear you fine from in here, y’know…”

 

When Yuuri emerges from behind the short curtain, however, all of Victor’s playful lines evaporate.

 

As does all the moisture in his throat, without warning.

 

The sight that greets him is what does it.

 

The first thing he notices, which he hadn’t noticed before: Yuuri’s hair has grown long enough to slick back the bangs and tie into a small ponytail.

 

The second thing he notices, which he never would have before: Yuuri has freckles that stretch over his shoulders and upper back.

 

The third thing he notices, which strikes him like a suckerpunch to the gut: Yuuri – dusty flour cheeks, vaguely flushed from stovetop heat, wearing an apron coming untied over a too-large pajama shirt and boxer shorts – is unexpectedly, inexorably _attractive_ . _._

 

“Uh.  Victor?  Hi?”  Yuuri pads over, slippers scraping against the tiles at his approach.  He waves a hand over Victor’s stunned visage.  “Hellooooooooo?  Earth to Victor Nikiforov, local YaH Monthly writer extraordinaire?”   

 

He’s—

 

He’s.  Stalling.

 

For the right words, for the right reaction to stave off his strange new revelation.

 

Very, very strange.

 

“Oh.”  Victor, at last, remembers how to swallow.  No, wait.  Breathe.  That’ll help too.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.  Whoops.  Zoned out real bad there.”

 

Bless, bless, _bless_ Katsuki Yuuri’s tolerant soul.

 

“It’s okay.  I know how that goes.”  Whether he truly does, whether he’s just saying that, Victor… can’t tell.  It bothers him, that he can’t read Yuuri right now like he normally can.  “What’s in the bag?  A housewarming gift of sorts?”

 

Easy.

 

A lightweight offering of common ground.

 

A place to start a new, (very) much-needed conversation.

 

“Y-Yeah, it is?  Sort of.  I brought some soup, see, for you and for Phichit…”  

 

 

* * *

 

(Fortunately, the rest of the evening goes like any ordinary dinner-turned-hangout night would between friends.

 

_—Hah._

 

_Friends…_

 

_huh…?_

 

If only that word didn’t feel so contrived for Victor, so wrong.

 

If only Victor had never noticed, however belated, what this perfect stranger has become to him now that he knows Yuuri better.

 

Now that he knows himself better – for whatever that’s worth now.)

 

* * *

 

Victor isn’t avoiding Yuuri’s calls and messages all of Sunday.

 

He isn’t.

 

Victor isn’t letting his alarm go for a few extra minutes, putting it on snooze after three minutes become five, completely on purpose.

 

He’s not.

 

He swears, he’s **not**.

 

“Vic, honey, you’re not taking off from work _again_ , are you?”  Christophe, worried, peeks out from the shower.  “I can’t keep Yakov from coming over here tomorrow if two days out turns to three, you know that, right?”

 

“Chriiiiiiiiiiiiis.”  Victor rolls over onto his stomach.  “I’ve decided: I’m staying in.  Here, in this bed.  All day.”

 

Uh-oh.

 

Chris isn’t replying.

 

…That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?

 

“My darling Vic, what are you _saying_?” Chris isn’t a heavy person by any means, and Victor is (fortunately) fairly fit – but he’s startled nonetheless by Chris clambering over his back and flat-out lying on top of him.  “You know…you shouldn’t talk like that…”

 

“Why nooooooooot?”

 

“Because,” Chris drawls, lilting into the crook of Victor’s shoulder, “people – like, for example, yours truly – are bound to…misinterpret what you mean by that.”

 

“You know I don’t mean it like that,” grunts Victor, muffled by his pillow and the pressure of Chris’s weight.  “Besides, we’re both taken, aren’t we?  For lack of better word?”

 

“You know that’s never stopped me before.”  Riposte pushed aside – along with Victor’s long fringe – Chris presses a brief peck to Victor’s forehead.  “Real talk, though.  You’re really torn up about this Beautiful Boy of yours, aren’t you?  I didn’t realize you had it this bad…”

 

“Neither did I,” mumbles Victor, voice fraying around the edges and eyes growing wet.  “I feel awful, though, not answering his calls.  Especially since Yuuri’s always been so patie—”

 

“Wait.  Hold up.”  Chris eases off, unexpectedly, looking down at Victor.  Baffled.  “Did you just say Yuuri?”

 

“Oh.  That’s right, I never.  Told you what his name was, have I?  We’ve been talking about him and I’ve called him everything except for—”

 

“ _Victor_ .”  Chris must be having an internal freakout, because he almost never calls Victor by his full name.  Or grabs his shoulders to tip him over onto his back that roughly.  “You should’ve **told** me, oh my God— Yuuri Katsuki?  Is that who you mean?  Because if it is—”

 

“…Yes?”  Victor squeaks, mouth going dry.

 

“—We’re classmates, Victor.  Get dressed.  Let’s go freshen up and wear our best.”  With this declaration, buck-naked, Christophe drags his suitemate out of bed.  

 

“Best?”

 

“You know it.  I’ll calling Seb, he’ll drive us Downtown to MU, so you just focus on getting physically ready to go and mentally prepared do what you have to.”

 

“To do what?”  Victor honestly doesn’t know.

 

But Chris – forever a friend worth having, the best kind of fashion and selfie buddy – clearly does.

 

“To let sweet Yuuri Katsuki know how much you adore him,” Chris shoves a towel at Victor, ushering him straight into the bathroom, “and find out how long the feeling’s been mutual.”

 

* * *

 

Chris, as it turns out, is only half right about his predictions.

 

Victor’s Intuition never lies.

 

He isn’t surprised that Chris would be proven wrong.

 

Though he **is** surprised that Yuuri had been so busy he hadn’t taken notice of Victor’s lack of communication.

 

“What do you mean?”  Yuuri tilts his head, bemused.  “I mean, I figured it was because you got sick, so I figured I’d check in today…”

 

“I-I was.  Technically speaking.  Okay, maybe not technically, but—”

 

“Victor.”  Yuuri has That Look, the one searching for meaning in meaninglessness, features worn and far more convincing of someone twenty-three going on twenty-four.  “Be honest with me, please.  What’s been going on with you?  You’ve been acting weird ever since you came over last weekend.”

 

Okay.

 

In the middle of the Student Union courtyard, dusk blanketing the paved paths surrounding them.

 

Here goes nothing…

 

“I don’t know,” Victor blurts out.  Regrets it, instantly, when the furrow to Yuuri’s brow grows deeper.  “I wish I knew what was happening, or why this is happening, but I just.  Don’t.  Yuuri, you have no idea—”

 

“Then enlighten me!”  Victor’s…shocked, to say the least; he’s never heard Yuuri raise his voice like that.  Not at him, anyway.  “If you know I can’t guess— you need to tell me!”

 

“Tell you **what** ?”  Victor shouts, not bothering to regulate his voice anymore.  “I don’t understand what you want, Yuuri, you need to tell me what _you_ want—”

 

“I want you to stop putting on airs and trying to hide who you are, Victor!  Be honest with me _and_ yourself!  God, Victor, you’re such an airhead sometimes, it’s incredible, you probably don’t even realize how much I—!”

 

Yuuri’s teeth clench, retracting his words and his wayward tongue.

 

“—Yuuri.”  He’s glad Chris gave them their privacy, glad the courtyard is fairly empty at this late evening hour.  “What don’t I realize about you?”

 

Raw, charged energy.

 

The mood, unlike how it was previous, settles into something weary.

 

Resigned.

 

“ _This is so unfair_ .”  In Japanese, Yuuri’s cadence dips and drops; Victor can barely translate it, learned enough from self-study and his time with Yuuri to be able to float by.  “ _All this time, I’ve been dropping hints and hoping you’d pick up on it, but who the hell am I trying to make happy here…?  This sucks.  You’re the worst.  Giving me all this hope, putting a smile on my face constantly, making me like you this much…_ ”

 

Like?

 

As in—

 

“ _…Like?_  Y-You mean—”  Victor’s chest aches, aches, aches when he hears that, because he **knows** the meaning of that.  “Yuuri… _are you saying...that you like me that much?_ ”

 

Yuuri’s big, beautiful eyes never cease to enchant Victor.

 

He’s never seen Yuuri’s eyes get so wide.

 

Never seen – never wanted to see – those eyes frightfully bright, either.

 

“ _I do._ ”  Yuuri – his Downtown Sleeping Beauty, his Little Dancer Boy Blue, his one and only Yuuri – tumbles right into his open arms.  “I’ve liked you so much, all this time…why didn’t your stupid Intuition get to work sooner?”

 

( _Ah._

 

_So this is what they mean, when they talk about fate…_

 

 _It’s all started fitting together in my head now._ )

 

“Come on, Yuuri…You know me and getting myself to work on time.”  Victor, chin tucked atop the mussed whorl of Yuuri’s hair, begins to laugh – which, he hopes, will distract Yuuri from how openly tears are running down his cheeks.  “I’m forever late to the party.  Fashionably late.  Starbucks in one hand, your hand in the other.”

 

“Forever?”  Yuuri sniffles, nudging his head forward and burrowing further into Victor’s embrace.

 

A solid weight, leaning on his shoulder.

 

A brush against his elbow, and then his wrist.

 

Fingertips, ever tentative, lacing with his.

 

Twining together.

 

Pause.

 

Shift.

 

Breathe.

 

* * *

 

“Forever and always,” smiles Victor, drawing back to pull Yuuri in – for a kiss, naturally, if only after he hums to no one in particular: “’Til the very last stop on our way home, Yuuri.”

  



End file.
